Best Dunked Poems
If you'd have lived and worked on Juno Ranch, you’d have come away better for it. It
may not have seemed like it at the time but Pancho (Uncle Frank) would put it to you, an’ it
was for you to decide to do it, what to do with it, or to fight. The motto was, “You either work
or fight, there ain’t no quittin’ on this-here ranch.”
Pancho cultivated a reputation as a living legend in his fifty-some years in the Devil’s
River country of the Texas frontier. He loved his life, family, work and felt plumb lucky to be
livin’ it. He believed there was art in every undertakin’ an’ practiced the highest standards in
dealin’ with any an’ all comers. He savvied horses, cattle an’ the land; and death was just the
gate that opened into higher pastures.
Ride 'em Pancho!
The cowboy wakes before each dawn
With blurry eyes n'a mournful yawn;
Gets breakfast down, just bacon'n eggs,
An' biscuits dunked in coffee dregs.
He feeds the stock some oats an' hay
In growin' light of break o' day.
Then Pancho comes an' rigs a hoss,
An' chews his butt, 'cause he's the boss.
“The sun is up, you little bride!
We're loosin' light! We gotta ride!”
So they ride out to make their rounds
In echoed clops of hoof-beat sounds.
The sun is high 'bout half-passed noon,
An' dinnertime is none too soon.
He eats his beans an' taters fast,
Then rolls a smoke an' rests at last.
He dreams of how he'll spend his pay
When he's in town on Saturday,
An' where he'll go to have some fun
With gals who'll laugh and call him, "Hun..."
He gets his hat an' pulls it down,
Forgets the dream of gals in town,
Cause if he ain't just damn near dead,
The work comes first on Pancho's spread.
Chased mercilessly
over well- worn tar
palpable loss pushes
a sable brush
dunked in dread
a furious deluge
of fear
oozes out
blackens every inch
of familiar landscape
what if’s
eat through
the still static blue horizon
making a meal
of unborn dreams
slaked only by
hastily grabbed
history
coupled with
ragged spirits
that desperately
haul hope north
safe haven
on strange soil
still dark hours
away
I was on a roll
Dunked into vegetable soup
We passed peas, corn, and carrots
Someone slathered butter on me.
Uh-oh!
Walking on the street,
stretching out both my arms
to catch the breeze
looking silly,
but I don't mind...
'silly' could very well be my middle name...
Closing my eyes as the
sun was dipping goodbye
just for a quick bit though,
(I reckon I'm not that silly),
since I wasn't walking on a sidewalk,
since there was none in that part...
wishing I was sitting instead,
or in that place
where I can swim
in that Manila Bay sunset,
immerse myself
stare,
drink that shimmering orange yolk
that bleeds light
watching it dip softly
into the languid waves,
rendering brilliance,
gilding everything
a golden inked cookie
from the milky sky
being dunked,
tickling my hungry eyes
ah,
the glorious,
soul-filling
Manila Bay sunset
--------------------------------
I continue my walk home
and I sigh,
I sleep at sunrise.
0528200913
I have a big feeling I will be writing a different version of this,
I was walking on that street, wishing I was watching the sunset
near Manila Bay
but yup, this was something that I wrote when I couldn't sleep
so wasn't able to fully grasp what I wanted to be conveyed,
it lacks something, I don't know, just Something.
Thank you for passing by.
HARMONY 69
The night of twelfth December `69
knotted together an icy storm wind
that whipped False bay`s waves
to white -frilled blankets.
Thunderclaps against primal rocks
resonated through a ghettoe of glowing tents
on a dark, rough ,bushy patch .
Rising plaintively above the din
of drums and flapping canvas,
creole strains solicited the capricious gods
for a clement Cape .
Love songs , sweet like wine
would even tittilated mermaid`s melons,
stranding them breathless, with tails scaled.
In my sixteenth tempestuous year,
I was sickened and sullied, spoiling for a fight
with that ever- prying, ever-lying police-state
denying us
dividing us
deriding us
ripping us
whipping us
in an all-pervasive racist propaganda storm
Harmony,was forced ethnic relocation right there
in a stamp-size sea-resort next to a stinking dump.
Our yearly anticipated salty baptism,
fouled for a full ten years,
dunked in fascist soil
of a false bay with a real bite….
rubbing coarse salt in our opened wounds
Rubbing it in the flayed
William, my sire, of the black turf belly
Rubbing it in the lashed
Maxie , my ma , of white-on-black graft
Rubbing it in the spurred
Dot Adams, my oracle , of the pearled-truth tongue
imprisoned to a silent ninety-day solitary confinement. .
Yes, a full two hundred scar-studded waxes
avidly saluting the wretched who rose in revolution
drowning exploiters in the oppressed`s precious blood
Algeria whilst raped,unveiling herself,
firing fear into bared French fascism
exploding the myth of a benevolent colonialism.
“Lumumba will guide the Kongo to freedom”
grandpa agitated hopefully as revolutionary Patrice,
our dark prince of peace
died on the bloodied butts
of neo-colonial carbines.
My seven-year heart burst
in anger and pain.
A companiable heart`s balance
tilted with unease at justice , unhinged.
the periodic uprisings of people in far-flung regions
against the arrogance of anglo-saxon imperialism
salted my youth with the tears of broken children,
their blood ever spattering my angry brow.
A 60 second embrace, held too long
A kiss on the forehead, felt so wrong
Add more bullets to my long list of regrets
You are one of a kind, I’ve thrown all my bets
Not too shabby for a drunk
A carnal request I wished I should not have dunked
The refusal was clear
My humiliation, felt worse than fear
Now I stir myself with sadness
Hoping this is just a mental illness
Feeling pathetic must have been the new cancer
Funny how chemotherapy can’t find a cure
My brain needs an overhaul
Looked away from the man who stole
Stealing my heart is a clichéd understatement
Losing my self is appropriately my new predicament
So I have to ponder
While Crouching in my white tee on a corner
Why do I worry of things I can’t change?
Don’t you think it’s the only thing that’s STRANGE?
Fell for a schmuck with a crowning smile
My poor choices, his firm denial
Cupid must have missed his arrow
Or was it destiny who’s missed a sparrow?
Time blurs images of the past
Past leaves traces that shadows can’t cast
After this I have to close my eyes
Waiting for the next wolf to worship my dice
A game of catch, I’ve reached for air
The wrong signs lead me to nowhere
Let me say you are so good to savor
But damn, breaking you now makes me better.
"Are you a boy or a girl"?
Angry Dad asked son five times
Dunked in water, his answer:
Son: (gasping) "Mermaid!"
All rights reserved ~~Cynthia Buhain-Baello~~05.28.15
The Dodoitsu is a fixed folk song form of Japanese origin and is often about LOVE or HUMOR. It has 26 syllables, four lines of 7, 7, 7, 5 syllables respectively. It is unrhymed and non-metrical.
Crazy joe had an elephant,
who he rode with some elegance,
until he wound up in his trunk
and into the drink was dunked
and cursed it's smiling arrogance
A chilly, wet, spring day when the icy mud melts just enough to soak your socks before you've even gotten to the car,
And all you can think about is getting to the cafe.
There's coffee there.
Everyone goes to the cafe on slushy mornings,
When the sun shines but wind frosts the eyebrows.
Today, it's so bad I wait outside the coffee shop,
Imagining the various flavors of warmth
Rivers and tributaries of delicious comfort
That steam my nostrils as customers hustle back to their cars,
Roasted beans tempt even winter's grip, daring her not to thaw.
Ah, to gaze through that glass, where each order is taken,
Where a few modest coins give so much joy...
And then, I pass through the doors as the line lurches forward.
Chatter and laughter create summer inside
Like fireworks between flirts and a carnival of cacophony
Humanity's warmth, deeper than the coffee in which it takes root.
Soon, I too have my name in the queue,
And my dream of warmth unnumbs my icy toes.
As my name is called, I carefully caress my beloved drink betwixt my palms,
Ceremoniously seasoning it with cocoa comforts and frothy cream.
I guard this small joy,
Bravely setting foot forth,
My joy apt, and sublime.
All too briefly enjoyed.
How fleeting I remember
When struck by the tragedy of ice
That stole my coffee,
Frosted my feet,
And dunked me frigid into a muddy puddle just deep enough to breach my collar.
How I grieved as life-giving brown sparkled briefly against dawn's daylight
Freed of it's paper-cup prison
Splashing hot pain across my face even as winter soaked my back.
I remembered the cafe's smells, and laughter, and blissful exuberance
That too briefly I enjoyed
Too focused on temptation's fate, a burned tongue, and warmed belly,
And I grieved her loss as she sprinkled amongst the snow and earth,
No longer mine,
And gone forever, save for a few drops' aroma
That yet wafted my empty cup.
It happened many years ago, just after World War ll.
When I was just a little girl with lots to see and do.
A visit to my cousin's house, ten miles northeast of town,
Would cause the frown upon my face to flip flop up-side-down.
I stayed for just a week or so and shared her saggy bed:
Told silly jokes and giggled, as sleep hovered overhead.
Then came that awful morning when we took our country walk.
The day would start with sunshine and much childish, girlie talk.
Mowed stubble in an open field, each bare foot placed with care,
As well as dirt road trod upon, with stones and pebbles there.
But what we were to come upon, while meandering on our way,
Is not a sight that any child might come upon today.
An old shed there beside the road, not even tucked from sight.
A charnel house with death inside: bad dreams to come that night!
The hog and steer hung upside down and both were split in half.
The pig above a rusted drum, prepared for scalding bath.
Their innards heaped beside the shed, a pile of sickening gore.
Two heads with glazed and staring eyes, would view the world no more.
A slaughterhouse for all to see while happening to pass by.
Run by a neighboring farmer who did butchering on the side.
We stood transfixed and watched him work, his lips pursed in a whistle,
As he dunked the hog in the scalding drum: later scraping off the bristle.
And sadly we took a closer look at the face of that old steer.
Two days before we had patted him in a field not far from there.
That gentle old beast in a pasture, unknowingly chewing his cud.
Now a dead and lifeless thing, defiled with sawdust and blood.
We trudged home in solemn silence, our innocence badly bruised.
The world, though still an open book, had new . . less pleasant rules.
A lesson in our lives to come of the callousness of men,
With many more lessons to follow, before this world will end.
Now when I see children learn about death, while watching pretend CGI;
Two little girls will still come to mind, and the old steer that made them cry.
© 2015 Diane Lefebvre
I struck out on my own around a year old
life was so full of fun, so many things with
which to play, a leaf scuttling by, a rustle
in the undergrowth. I was enthralled.
I stood on a road watching intently
a little mouse. A car shot past bowling
me over and slicing off half of my tail.
It stung like hell and dripped blood.
Finding a cool stream I placed my tail
within, oh the blessed relief I knew
I had been lucky, one life now done.
My next life also flashed by as
hunter became prey, I ran for
my life from a pack of hungry
wolves barely escaping their
razor sharp fangs and hot breath.
Fishing for salmon I ventured
in too deep and got swept away
tumbling through rapids, banging
into rocks lucky to be washed ashore.
Bedraggled I lie in the sun
I swallowed way more water
than I drink in two days.
Shivering as I dry off.
Maybe four is the charm
as now I am much wiser.
Oh no I followed my nose
to an enticing exciting smell.
It led me straight into a mire
churned up by rooting pigs
I was being sucked down
exhausted I finally lay still.
Well a miracle happened
the muddy slime released
its deathly grip and I was
able to slowly wriggle free.
What a state my fur was in
muddy slime all over me
only one thing to do and
that's take a hated bath.
As I rolled in the shallows
I felt a change in pressure
and ran for my life chased
by angry snapping jaws.
Piranhas I had disturbed
Nearly ripped to shreds
I slipped away to rest up.
Unfortunately as I drifted
off I started getting stung
I was under attack from
angry bees I was lying
right over their hive.
Fast as a streak I headed
yet again for the river
and dunked myself again
and again till they were gone.
Seven lives already used up
and I was still only three years.
A few years past uneventfully
I am getting the hang of things.
One dark stormy night
sheltering in a leafy tree.
It got hit by lightning
knocking me to the ground.
Fur still burning I looked
a real fright, a cartoon cat
with hair on end whilst all
I really wanted was a quiet life.
Well I have used up eight
of my nine. I now mainly
sleep my days away. The
urge of adventure quietly rests.
My day will come soon
now as age takes its toll.
I am stiff and nearly blind
so I lay down a final time.
I've thought about giving up. I thought life was just too hard.
Would you quit a high money game, just because you were dealt bad cards?
If you fell off a horse, would you think you were done and just start walking by it's side?
Would you cry and pout or get back up? Get on that horse and ride?
You may not succeed the first try, but there's always another chance.
In life, in sports, in playing games, and even in romance.
Practice makes perfect with everything in life. Work always comes along with it.
You may get frustrated but never give up. Champions would never quit it.
Do you think Michael Jordan just grabbed a ball and dunked it on his first try?
Or did he play again and again? Now it seems like he can fly.
Some are born with greatness. Others work and work to achieve.
You can do anything you want in life. All you have to do is believe!
Hooray!
Wet grassy feet fill my soccer cleats.
Hot sweaty teens run fast track meets.
She skis down sugary mountain tops.
He begs his coach to play shortstop.
Footballs, field goals, fumbles.
Touchdowns, tackles, tumbles.
My mother keeps warm with hot brown drinks,
as I learn to skate on chilly rinks.
A sadly splintered hockey stick, from a two-quick hat trick.
A winning catch is cradled in a well-loved mitt.
Tiger wins with a hole in one.
Miniature golf is much more fun.
Double dribble the whistle blows.
Excitement on the court grows!
Busy balls dunked in their hoops.
"Hooray" the three cheers for the ALLEY -OOP!
I
My five-five-fingers of my hands
Zestfully lived In serenity.
The three thrill fingers of my right hand:
Thumb, index finger and middle finger
Stoutly lived civilly and gleefully
Amongst her BROTHERS:
They rested gleefully upon the placid,
SHARP-SABLE-POINTED-DART.
II
Sharp-sable-pointed-dart;
Perched in the midst of the three thrill fingers
And laid rest upon the hungry,
Virgin DUSKY-SHEET, which sprawled
Bear flat on the glossy desk.
The glossy desk accompanying the earth
The earth accompanying its depth.
III
The other two fingers of my right hand:
Ring finger and little finger
Calmly leisure, plopped on the hungry,
virgin dusky-sheet
And lent ears to the sharp-sable-pointed-dart,
Sharp-sable-pointed-dart,
Muttering vignettes of yesterday
Muttering vignettes of today
Muttering vegnettes of tomorrow.
Upon the glossy desk
My five fingers of my left hand too
Laid rest, and eyeballed the sharp-sable-pointed-dart,
Muttering deep thoughts.
IV
Look,
All you who waded through lines:
All you who unearth the heart
Of this earth, hunting for treasures
Pore over my ten fingers.
My ten fingers,
As pure as a full virgin moon.
I have dunked deep my five fingers
Of my right hand with my progenitors
In a bowl of sweet dishes
And nibbled singed YAMS amidst
The thriving vegetables.
V
But my forefinger of my left hand
Never been raised above
To curse the heavens
Never been raised up to pinpoint
My progenitors' homeland
Never had it tasted any depravity
And never will it be licked
Or bit by the savage butchers of Meat
Who loved to fatten themselves on murder
And gratified their heart with
Juicy cup of blood and gore.
© Martins Tomisin 2016
Flashlamp tracings trap and dazzle,
dancing in the twilight. Children scatter
through the meadow, flip-flops flapping,
eager beavers chasing dreams.
Fast the flow, the stream blinks
back a hint of moonlight,
and the torches' criss cross patterns
splatter 'til the beams converge.
Nets are plied, and mason jars
are dunked beneath the rippling surface,
small fish wriggle in confinement,
kids' excitement and delight.
Safe and snug, imaginations
settle as they say goodnight.